


Once, in Another Time

by NimWallace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angst, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Fallen Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Memory Loss, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-28 14:48:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19814518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: Crowley knew Aziraphale before he fell--or, a recount of how they fell in love, the first time.





	1. Chapter 1

“It's funny, that we never knew each other in Heaven.”   
Aziraphale says it very casually one night, over dinner. It very nearly makes Crowley choke on his tiramisu.  
Something very old aches in his chest, something like a memory he meant to forget. It is painful and raw.   
“Thought we would've bumped into each other, you know?” Aziraphale continues nonchalantly.   
“I wish you'd remember.”   
The words, bitter on his tongue, because he certainly remembers. He remembers every moment, every glance across the halls. He can still see the Principality bathed in Holy light, still hear his voice ringing in his ear as he tells him about the excellent job he did on the Sun.   
“Remember what, dear?”  
  
  
BEFORE THE BEGINNING

BEFORE THE FALL

“Ar—Archangel Raphael, erm, Gabriel sent me over, to, erm, to help with—“   
Raphael turns to look at the angel before him. It is a Principality, very flustered and seemingly anxious. His hands are folded behind his back as if he is afraid of giving himself away.   
“Aziraphale, right?” Raphael says, and the angel sighs in relief.   
“Oh, you do know me, then,” he says breezily. “I—I thought maybe you'd be annoyed, working with a Principality and all—“   
“Why would I be annoyed?” Raphael replies, eyebrows furrowing. “Just because you're a Principality? We're both angels, aren't we? No point fussing about who's holier than who.”   
Aziraphale's face breaks into a smile.   
“Yes, yes I quite agree. Anyway, I was coming to help with the construction of a new nebula.”  
“I've got big plans for this one,” Raphael says. “Could use an extra pair of hands. Come along then.”   
Aziraphale follows easily.   
  
  
“Did you make that one, Raphael?”   
Aziraphale is talking about the sun. They are lounging around, because there is nothing better to do, and Raphael needs rest after his newest creation.   
He and Aziraphale have gotten on rather well together. For one, Aziraphale isn't a prat. Gabriel has really been getting in Raph's nerves lately. All snappy.   
“Yes, I call it the Sun. It's a star.”   
Aziraphale looks up at the great shining beacon above them. It is truly magnificent.   
“Gorgeous,” he says. “Truly.”   
“Thank you.”   
If a blush steals into his cheeks, he doesn't let it linger there.   
  
“Y—yes Gabriel, I'll get on that right away—“   
“Remember, Aziraphale. Always be better than last time.”   
Aziraphale nods, not meeting his eyes, and hastily attends to his task.   
“You should be nicer to him,” Raphael says, irritated. Gabriel doesn't even spare him a look.   
“Aziraphale needs to sort out his priorities,” he says coldly. “Perhaps you do as well, _Brother_ Raphael.”   
Raphael only looks sourly away.

“Perhaps when the Almighty finishes with the Earth, we'll get to work together,” Aziraphale says brightly.   
“Maybe,” Raphael says. He doesn't say it, but he would like very much if he was allowed to see Aziraphale more. Perhaps he'd even put in a request to the Almighty.   
  
“I am sick of this place,” Lucifer tells him.   
“Me too,” he says, a bit boredly. “But hey, that's life, innit? I'm gonna go, I've got things to do.”  
  
“Raphael, what is your. . .you know. Your Heavenly Gift? I've heard that Archangels have them.” Aziraphale's hand is in his. He's not sure when it got there, but it's there. He likes how it feels—soft, _correct_. Like it's very much meant to be there.  
“Healing, and Love,” he tells him sincerely.   
“Oh, well that does rather well suit you,” Aziraphale says cheerfully. He lifts Raphael's hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.   
He can feel himself slipping.   
  
“You are forgetting your place, Raphael.”   
He is shaking with anger. He could smite Gabriel, if smiting other angels was proper. He can feel heat spreading through his whitened knuckles.   
“Seems to me you're forgetting yours.”   
“You've been dabbling in things you do not understand, Raphael. I have spoken to the Almighty about it.”   
“You spoke to Metatron, you mean.”   
“Be careful what you say. There are others in the Bad Books right now. I'd hate to see you there too.”   
  
There is something in his chest that keeps blossoming.   
_Please, show me the way.  
  
_ “Something big's going to happen, I think.”   
“Raph—“  
“I don't have much time, Aziraphale.”   
“Don't say that!”   
“I love you.”   
  
_Burning. Burning. He is closing his eyes. He is listening to the wind enveloping his body. There is agony.  
He is praying.   
There is no answer.   
  
_He doesn't like his new name.   
He doesn't like anything about Hell—he isn't _like_ these people. He isn't _evil_.   
“Forget Heaven,” Beelzbub tells him. “They rejected us. We have only each other now.”   
  
When earth is created, he silently hopes he will be chosen to be sent down. If he prays about it, he's not sure if it really counts.   
If it does, it works.

When he first sees the angel of the eastern gate, his heart stops for about a minute before he remembers it must beat again.   
He finishes the temptation of Eve swiftly—it was easy, in any case. She already wanted to eat the apple, just needed a second opinion.   
As soon as he does it, he loses a bit of Faith.   
  
He decides to make his approach straight forward, even funny. Aziraphale is standing on the wall and watching the entrance a bit nervously.   
He slithers up the bricks, still a snake. When he reaches the top, he decides to morph back. He stretches his wings, and waits for the angel to say something.   
He doesn't.  
“Well that went down like a lead balloon,” Crawly says instead. Aziraphale looks at him—and he hopes, desperately, for that moment of recognition to flutter across his features.   
It doesn't.   
“Sorry?” he says, instead of, “Raphael!”   
Crawly's heart breaks.   
  
For the next 6,000 years, he falls in love all over again. It's swift, and easy, and he wishes Aziraphale could do the same.   
The Almighty must have wiped his memories of him after he fell.   
But that doesn't matter.   
Because they make new memories, and Aziraphale must remember something, because he truly believes Crowley has a good heart, truly believes he is kind.   
And it's one of the reasons Crowley loves him—because he's always _believed_ in him.   
So when Aziraphale softly says, “Remember what, dear?”   
He replies, “Nothing, Angel. Why don't we go back to yours?”   
Because they have more time yet.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon request, here's some closure for you ;)

Aziraphale knows something is bothering Crowley.   
He knows because the demon has that unbearably sad look on his face—like someone who's been very tired for a very long time and can't find the time to stop and rest.   
It is unacceptable. He must find a way to get rid of it.   
  
They go back to his shop, and Aziraphale pours him a glass of wine, but he doesn't drink it. He just sort of stares into it, swishes it about, and sets it back down. Something about the expression on his face is making Aziraphale's heart ache.   
“Do tell me what's wrong, my dear?”   
Crowley looks up at him, or at least, Aziraphale assumes he does. He still hasn't taken his sunglasses off, even though they're alone. Another indicator something is wrong.   
“Don't worry about it, angel,” Crowley says softly, not even bothering to deny that something's not right.   
Aziraphale shakes his head.   
“You know you can trust me, Crowley,” he says, moving closer. Crowley won't look at him. “If—if it's something I've done—“   
“It's nothing you've done,” Crowley hisses, voice thick. “It's not—you haven't done anything wrong, angel. Just an old wound.”  
He lays back on the settee, then decidedly takes the glass of wine and drinks it all in one go.   
“I wish you would talk to me,” Aziraphale says worriedly. “I don't like seeing you like this.”

Crowley takes off his glasses. His eyes are barely yellow—he must be feeling very human.   
“Do you know,” he asks hoarsely, “Did you ever know a Raphael?”   
Aziraphale erupts with light.   
  
  
His entire human form is engulfed with it—it swallows him, warm and fire at once. Holy Light—the kind that filters through the stained glass windows of old Cathedrals—the kind that blanketed his form when he was created.   
There is a feeling of something like adrenaline and happiness rushing through him—soaking him, something very pure and untouched.   
_Love,_ he realizes.   
Waves upon waves of it, washing over him. He has tapped into a very Loved Memory.   
One he's never seen before.   
_And then, suddenly—  
_Hundreds of them. Memories that had been wiped long ago, resurfacing, renewing. Secret glances down long hallways, tentative touches, odd smiles, golden eyes—  
He collapses to the ground, and the light fades.   
  
  
He comes to a few hours later in the armchair.   
Crowley is beside him, clearly having been watching him in concern.   
“You all right, Aziraphale?” he asks, getting up to crouch in front of him. “You hurt?”   
“N-no.” His head does hurt a bit, but he leaves that out. What matters right now is that Crowley is in front of him, and there is something very old between them that he is suddenly growing very aware of, and then he's crying before he even understands it.   
“Hey, what's this?” Crowley says, a bit of panic in his voice. He reaches out a hand, but doesn't touch him. It's too risky. Too forbidden. “Angel?”   
“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale says. “I'm so sorry, love.”   
  
He stops crying after a bit. He doesn't know how long it takes—a few minutes, or an hour, or a day. He isn't sure, but he knows that at some point, Crowley got up the courage to put a hand on his back and his rubbing small circles into it. Neither of them has spoken yet.   
Aziraphale wipes his remaining tears away.   
“I remembered,” he says finally. “Everything.”   
For a few painful moments, Crowley's eyes are filled with fear. As though their time together had somehow been poisoned by the knowledge. As though Aziraphale could possibly love him less because of it.   
“It—I'm not, I'm not upset,” he says hastily. “It was just. . .very overwhelming.”And if he's being honest, something in him is a bit sad.   
_All the time I've wasted. I'm such a fool._  
Crowley nods understandingly.   
“Take your time,” he admonishes, about just everything in general. Aziraphale nods, and sniffles again. Then he smiles weakly.   
“I—I think the Almighty wanted me to remember,” he says. “Oh Crowley, I've been so foolish.” He wipes his face on his sleeve.   
“You haven't,” Crowley promises. “'S not your fault you didn't know.” He studies the carpet for a moment. “I didn't—I didn't know if I should tell you. I thought—once you knew I'd Fallen—“ His voice breaks. “I was just glad you still liked me, anyhow,” he mutters. “Didn't wanna ruin it.”   
“You couldn't, dear,” Aziraphale says. “You could never ruin it.”   
It's Crowley's turn to get misty-eyed now, and Aziraphale finally just pulls him in. Holds him tightly to his chest.   
“I'll always love you, Crowley,” he says gently. “Our side.”   
“Our side,” Crowley agrees.   
They don't need to say more.


End file.
